


and with this ring

by pensee



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Post-WOTL or AU idk, Proposals, Sappiness, sans blood, the Digestivo bridal carry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 09:57:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19170949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensee/pseuds/pensee
Summary: An offhand remark, and the events leading up to a proposal, in short vignettes.





	and with this ring

 The shop has no bell to announce its customers, but the proprietor nonetheless turns from a display of candied figs and unerringly towards Will, smiling in the polite, unobtrusive way that Will’s come to appreciate over the months they have been in Paris.

The other man can appreciate both polite conversation and silence, and Will wants the latter today, so—.

“Ah, monsieur! I was not expecting you so soon. Le docteur just paid me a visit yesterday, and purchased enough for a small feast. Including chocolate strawberries, the best of the season!”

Will frowns for a split second before he recovers. Hannibal was usually more on top of things than that; if he’d already gone shopping earlier in the week, he normally wouldn’t have sent Will out the next day.

Chocolate covered strawberries?

“Your husband is a man of good taste,” the shopkeeper goes on, pausing with a comical, tight-lipped expression when Will turns to him with a glare.

“Ahem,” the man coughs, seamlessly burying his mistake. “Well, as you can see, we have recently received these wonderful olives from Greece…”

Today was not the day for silence, Will thinks helplessly, as the other man leads him around the store.

 

 

 _Your husband_.

Will nibbles on his lower lip, cross-legged in a damasked armchair in his study.

Christ. The apartment is big enough he has his own study—the smaller one, obviously, since Hannibal was the one with all the books, a drawing desk, and eerie antlered sculptures.

Jove is whimpering in his sleep at his feet, and Will pets at his thick ruff with the ball of his foot. Winston pokes his head out of the puppy pile, Beanie growling at the loss of body heat as a floorboard creaks in the doorway.

“Hello, Beanie Baby,” Hannibal greets, a low chuckle in his throat as the little mutt abandons Winston and pads over to him, yawning wide.

Will silently watches him pet their dog, and chokes down a question.

 _My husb_ —.

“It’s late, Will. Time for bed.”

It’s tough to argue—Will’s vision really is swimming, his eyes heavy—but getting his legs to cooperate from their cramped position is the difficult part.

They’ve changed a lot, over the years. Once, being this sluggish and comparatively vulnerable around Hannibal would’ve sent a sharp bolt of panic through his system, but tonight, he just leans into the contact, entirely unsurprised when Hannibal scoops him up, one hand supporting his back, the other behind his knees.

“How the hell are you gonna manage this when you’re eighty and I’m still too lazy to walk up to bed?” he asks, and Hannibal snorts.

“I’m sure you’ll have realized laziness won’t be tolerated in our household by then.”

Will cups a hand over his face, hiding.

They’ll be old and grey, but Will doesn’t doubt anymore that they’ll be somewhere, together.

“Is that so,” he drawls, smiling and kissing Hannibal on the cheek after being deposited into bed.

 

 

At week’s end, Hannibal does host a feast for the ages, his colleagues from work, a rising star soprano from the opera, some of Will’s friends from French lessons attending.

The chocolate covered strawberries, their tops still a deep, perfect crimson, feature as part of the dessert course, and Will swallows his disappointment that the  _dolce_  and champagne weren’t part of a more private affair.

“My boyfriend,” Will starts, and stalls on the word. “He doesn’t talk to me about patients, you know that.”

“Well, you  _must_  hear stories. My niece is fascinated by surgical videos she has seen online, and I hate to say, I have, hm, how do you say, caught the bug?”

“You will have to ask  _him_  about that, Anais,” Will laughs, Hannibal sneaking up behind them, Will only noticing his soundless approach when Anais rises from her chair to accept a kiss.

“Would you like to help me see the Tomases out?” he asks, and Will pretends to think on it, both of them aware of his general dislike of the family.

But then, he considers this. Their friends, few as they are, have started to refer to them as a unit, lumping their names together in conversation as if they are a single person.

It would be impolite for one of them to play polite host without the other.

“Yeah,” he says, throat tight when Hannibal squeezes him on the elbow before leading him to the foyer with a hand on his spine.

“Good boy. You’ve learned your manners,” he whispers, and laughs when Will tries to shove him away.

 

 

The sunlight is excessively bright this morning, and Will knows it’s already creeping towards noon, but he stuffs his face into his pillow and groans unhappily at the prospect of getting up. 

Hannibal is nowhere in the apartment as Will aimlessly walks from room to room, searching for him, though peripherally knowing he will find a note in the kitchen, the dogs already walked and fed, playing with each other in the courtyard outside.

His heart swells when Hannibal is near, and waits, weakened, when he is not.

This agonizing anticipation burns, and he pities Hannibal, for feeling this way years before Will ever bothered to consider that he met the only person he’d ever want to stay with in a subterranean FBI office with murder all over the walls.

“Jesus,” he jumps, when he feels arms wrapping around him, Hannibal’s warm hands pressing at his stomach, his chin tucked over Will’s shoulder. His thumb strokes absentmindedly at the scar on Will’s abdomen.

“I thought you were out.”

“You slept later than usual.”

“Where’d you go? I didn’t see a note.”

Hannibal inhales sharply. “I didn’t leave one. I find myself confused at our situation. I was initially confident in how I would approach you at this moment, but I know you would appreciate this current lack of fanfare.”

“Wha—,” Will starts, but Hannibal’s already turning him around. Will gets to see him drop down to one knee, the movement fluid though syrupy, as if he is watching rain fall through fogged glass.

“Would you do me the honor of being mi—.”

“No,” Will says, finding his hands in Hannibal’s hair, brushing back the unruly lock hanging over his left eye. “Ask me the way  _you_ wanna ask it.”

Hannibal looks up at him, something between fond irritation and intrigued fascination crossing his features before he takes a deep breath and the waters calm. His face is serene when he next speaks.

“William, will you marry me?”

“Oui,” Will whispers, Hannibal practically leaping up, grabbing Will and manhandling him around in circles around the hall. Both of them laughing and clinging, close as can be.

“ _Oui, oui, oui, oui, oui_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Isn't it weird when they can just be happy?


End file.
